#10: CHEESEBURGERS

2x14 "The Third Man," mid-late Season 2, and 6x04 "Number One Fan"

Note: Half of this is a (very) revised excerpt from This Nikki Heat Thing.

"People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do." –Isaac Asimov

With her dress bag draped over his arm, Castle gently ushers Beckett into the elevator at the Twelfth.

"So how'd you know I'd like Remy's?" she says, halfway down to the lobby.

Castle grins. How long has he wanted to say this to her and stand a chance that she would believe him? "I just know you that well."

"You do not."

"Is that a challenge?" he asks, facing her. "Because if it is, I'd be glad to raise the stakes."

She bites her lip. "Just what did you have in mind?"

"I'll guess your order."

"You'll what?" she laughs. "Castle, last week you brought me food from four different places because you couldn't pick just one."

"Food and drink," he insists. "If I'm right, I take you home." When she arches one menacing brow at him, he quickly amends: "Your home. The door. Walk you, cover cab fare, whatever. Just deliver you and your dress bag here"—he lifts it more into view—"to your place unscathed."

The elevator bell rings and the doors open to the lobby, and Beckett steps out ahead of him but then turns on her heel to face him. "And if you're wrong?"

Ah, Beckett. Always prepared for him to be wrong. If she could see the scoreboard in his head, she would finally realize that the odds are against that.

He simply replies, "Then I'll pay your bill."

Win-win for Richard Castle. Doesn't matter which way the wager turns out. He goes ahead and gives himself a tally now.

The place is nearly empty by the time Castle and Beckett agree that they don't actually intend to camp out at Remy's just because it's open all night long.

Never mind that it's three in the morning, and staying any longer would mean an inevitable walk of shame. That part, neither of them bothers to mention.

"Moment of truth," she says, an edge of nerves to her voice. "Let's hear it, Castle."

His guess is written on a little slip of paper tucked into his coat pocket. Silently, he slides it across the table.

"One strawberry shake," he recites, as though she doesn't have the words written in front of her. "One medium-well burger with lettuce, tomato, mushroom, and green pepper. No ketchup, not because you never eat ketchup, but because you're wearing something you like enough that you—"

"Impressive," she interrupts, pushing it back across the table for him to retrieve. "And so close."

"Close? What do you mean 'close'?"

She shrugs. "It was a cheeseburger."

"But I—oh." In his haste and complacency, he must have forgotten entirely to specify that; didn't even notice the discrepancy as she ate, distracted as he was with her lips and her laughter and even an accidental brush of her leg against his. "Burger," he says quickly. "Burger could mean ham or cheese. It's not like I wrote 'quiche.' Although that could also mean ham or cheese. Or both. So that actually proves my point. It is like quiche. I'm not convincing you, am I?"

She shakes her head and smiles. "Now pay up."

"Guess so," he says, taking out his wallet, his visage of reluctance looking just a little too forced.

It's then that Beckett suspects that Castle has still won.

She keeps up the ruse. She acts just as he does—as though his paying for her meal tonight is no more chivalrous or romantic or indicative of any feelings on the part of either one of them than the apologetic four-course takeout they shared at her desk last week.

But the more she acts that way, the more convinced she is that the gesture is platonic and the harder it is not to wonder what could possibly be the harm in letting Castle take her home. Her home. The door. Just to deliver her there unscathed.

Unscathed and warm and full-bellied and satisfied.

When they hit the cold midnight air outside the restaurant, her dress bag draped over his arm again, the absence of him at her own arm makes her feel nothing like she's won.

"You know, Castle, you were right about almost everything."

"Wow. What are the odds I can get that in writing?"

She takes out a couple of bills and offers them to him. "I mean, what's one topping, right?"

But even though her outstretched hand undoubtedly tells Castle one thing—Take the money—the barely perceptible tremor in her fingers tells him another: Take me home.

He hesitates, her meaning too unclear to him.

Is this a silent plea to let her lose their wager just this once, or simply an attempt to make good on her word when she isn't sure which of them has won?

"No," he says finally. "No, we had a deal, and I'll honor that."

It's what she once told him when she made him leave the precinct. One extraordinary apology later, she was offering him tomorrow.

That's a lot of tomorrows ago now.

"This isn't a deal," she says suddenly, catching him off-guard. "This isn't a bet or a win."

"What isn't?"

"Walk with me," she says, and then, on an exhale: "Just walk."

They hold each other's gaze for what seems a timeless moment, reading each other, speaking without words.

His eyes confirm it: You mean nothing more.

But hers say: I mean nothing less.

He nods once. "Okay," he replies, a smile playing at his lips. "I can do that."

So she just wants him around a while more?

He decides that Beckett's wrong about one thing. It is a win. Not even a tally in his mind will properly commemorate it.

The next time they go for burgers, Beckett gets cocky.

And maybe a little bit jealous.

No, not jealous. Just rightly annoyed. Who slips away to take a phone call while on a—while out to dinner with someone moments before ordering food?

Based on the snippet of conversation she catches, the ill-timed phone call is Paula or Gina or some other woman integral to creating Nikki Heat, anyone but the woman who inspired Nikki, because that woman is alone, listening to her stomach growl at the scent of grilled meat and toasted bread.

So she places her order.

"And what about your . . .?" Instead of filling in the blank, the server throws a nod at Castle's unoccupied seat.

"Oh, he'll be—" Beckett pauses, remembering the night she ordered for only herself while he dutifully wandered out of earshot, the night that Castle wagered on what she'd want and they ended up surprising one another with a too-close guess and a late-night walk home.

She's not sure what gets into her, but she goes ahead and orders Castle's burger and vanilla shake.

He comes back a minute or so later. "Sorry about that," he says. "Ready to order?"

"Already did." She busies herself with a mini trifold menu standing upright on the table, less for the content and more to avoid Castle's eye.

"Oh. For me, too?"

"Yes, for you, too," she says, her tone conveying either that this gesture is no big deal or that she's annoyed with him—which one, he can't say.

When their plates come, Castle appraises his burger without comment.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Was I right?" The note of impatience in her voice makes it impossible for her to pretend she doesn't care.

Meanwhile, Castle's enjoying this unexpected game far too much. "Close."

This time she says nothing, but her expression asks: What do you mean 'close'?

"This isn't a cheeseburger."

"Last time you didn't get a cheeseburger," she protests.

"Of course I did. Who eats a plain hamburger?"

"You did. You must not have noticed."

"I would have noticed," Castle laughs. "You didn't notice and now you're covering your tracks. You were too busy gloating that you had a cheeseburger to realize I had one, too."

They may be bickering over getting to know each other's orders, having dined together only so many times, but even in this moment, their playful chemistry would make anyone who can hear them believe this couple has already seen countless years together.

"All right," she concedes, even though the concession has just as much fight to it as any of her arguments, and she reaches for his plate, drawing it to herself.

"What are you doing?"

She nudges the plate with her cheeseburger toward him. "Here."

"What? No, it's fine," he says, one hand seeking out his old plate as he nudges the coveted cheeseburger back to her, as though they're juggling as a team. "What's one topping, right?"

"Just take it. It's no big deal."

"I know it isn't a big deal."

"Castle, I'm serious. Okay?"

He finally agrees. "Okay." Then he lifts the top bun off the cheeseburger. "Ah. Actually, you know, it's not just one topping."

"Oh. Right." She nudges his old plate toward him yet again, and he grabs the pickles while she reaches over and peels the mushrooms and green peppers off of the cheeseburger in front of him. They nearly swap their lettuce and tomatoes, but wordlessly they catch the futility and exchange a shy smile instead.

"Thanks," he says.

She nods and hides her smile behind a bite.

Castle watches her, and she arches a brow at him. "You know," he says, "we could just ask for another cheeseburger."

She's chewing, but she rolls her eyes.

"I'm just saying. Who eats a plain hamburger?"

She's going to smack him. For every reason and none at all. She keeps her hands full of burger as a matter of restraint. "Castle."

"By the way," he says, "thanks for the shake. Though I was kind of thinking chocolate today." Off her subtly fallen look, he adds, "But you know I like my vanilla, too."

At that she smirks, unconsciously burying the tinge of disappointment she doesn't know she's shown him. "That's funny," she teases. "I didn't think there was anything vanilla about you."

Because if talking about food makes them bicker like old marrieds, nothing rekindles the spark between two people who are decidedly not-together quite like a joke about one's sex life.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he says.

Outside the dentist's office where Emma Briggs has taken five hostages, Sergeant Roman wants a code word for Castle to use to signal trouble.

Since they've put apples into earnest use, Beckett's fairly sure he won't choose that, not to mention that it's comically close to Nikki Heat's pineapples and Emma has already proven the endlessness of her knowledge of Castle trivia.

They've also used yellow and red accordingly, so she'd wager that Castle won't choose a color code this time around. That eliminates several options already, and Castle isn't coming up with anything for the sergeant.

But then Roman only makes matters more difficult when he asks Castle his favorite food. The man is a connoisseur with a very . . . eclectic . . . palate. From the fine dining of LeCirque and Spago to soap-flavored lollipops and homemade s'morelettes, Castle has seldom met a morsel he couldn't appreciate.

"Cheeseburgers," Beckett interrupts, saving the day with a decisive declaration of insider's knowledge. "He loves cheeseburgers."

Her fiancé folds. Sometimes she knows him better than he knows himself. "That's true. I do enjoy a good cheeseburger."

Code word established, Roman finishes his briefing and takes his leave.

Beckett straightens Castle's collar which doesn't need straightening and meets his eyes. "Listen," she says. "I'm kind of looking forward to spending the rest of my life with you, so don't do anything stupid in there, okay?"

A late-night walk home. An uninterrupted dinner out. Years later, she's still angling to have as much time with him as she can possibly get. At least she can finally admit it aloud.

And she knows him so well now; knows how often his memory and his theories and his predictions turn out to be impressively accurate, and that's what she's counting on now.

She's counting on everything she knows about him to ensure that she'll have a lifetime to keep getting to know him.

So even though she's swallowing her worry as she watches him walk away, she tells herself that her Castle will be all right. And she can bet on it.